A Case of No Crime
by TheShock
Summary: After he solved what seemed to be the most mysterious set of murders, Cole Phelps is faced with a case unlike any others. A case too short and too insignificant to look into, but when small links to Elsa Lichtmann are discovered, he figures their love is hot, and then cold. (One shot, written for Caesar's Palace "First Sentence" game.)


**I decided to set this case after The Quarter Moon Murders, because I enjoyed the Homicide desk far too much when I watched an L.A. Noire playthrough** **— and it's a trope commonly seen in noir movies, the trope of homicide detectives.**

 **I'm sorry it's quite short, but I hope it's enjoyable, nonetheless.**

 **A Case of No Crime**

It was another day in California, as the sun was gently creeping out from the clouds — the myth of "sunny California" was easily shattered by the rainy days — and I was looking out on the windows, watching Caddies speeding away, people walking on the streets, and it seemed the town was never looking better. You'd say it wasn't even touched by the war's after-effects, but I knew better.

And many of us did.

Admiring the view was suddenly cut off by Stefan Bekowsky's loud knock on my door, and I spun to take a good look at him. His hat was slightly dusty, and he looked like he needed a good rest, but what interested me was the dossier he was holding — his words seemed to draw me back to the reality of the criminal world.

"We got this odd case. It's been thrown back an' forth between departments," Stefan said, as he rolled his eyes, "'cause nobody can figure this bullshit out."

"What is it, exactly?" I asked, taking the dossier from his hands, as I lightly adjusted my black tie. After a quick examination of the files, I did nothing but look a little surprised. "Huh. Why is it even thrown to Homicide? This looks like a slander case."

"Everyone's said that this can't be an Arson case. And it's definitely no Robbery case at all." Bekowsky said, reaching for his smokes. "We asked even Traffic, before you roll that one out."

"Well. Better check this thing out," I said, picking up my white hat. "With that, a new world opens to us."

However, I didn't know that this was the start of my descent...

…Into the unknown.

Stefan and I started walking downstairs, towards our car, and I couldn't shake off the feeling we were being watched — as if someone was waiting for us to fail miserably. But I knew I couldn't let that happen, no matter what I would have to go through.

"You're behind the wheel," I said, with some authority in my voice. "Let's go to Wilshire Police Station."

 **(After a half-hour drive…)**

The station itself didn't look like it went under any renovation, but the case at hand was definitely intriguing. The chief of the station, Captain McKelty, didn't seem quite pleased with the whole paperwork he had to deal with, and placed a hand over my left shoulder while looking at me quite seriously.

"Detective Phelps, I trust you to uncover this mystery," he said, in a guttural voice. "This is something LAPD hasn't seen before. Bring the light of justice, my son."

"Of course, sir," I nodded half-heartedly, as we made way towards Interview Room 1, where this mysterious Josef K. was standing in the chair with a puzzled expression, dressed quite shabbily — like he was barely out of bed when he was arrested.

I sat on the opposite chair, picking up my notebook as I had a few curious questions to ask, while Bekowsky was leaning against a wall. It seemed that the man before me was in his twenties, tired, and quite bewildered about his arrest, as he claimed there was absolutely no reason given to him.

"Mr. K, what is actually your full name?" I asked, looking for anything that gave him away.

"I'm Kafka. Joseph Kafka." he said, after a slight hesitation on his part. "I'm twenty-six years old."

"I suppose you do not have an address?" I said, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"No, sir," Mr. Kafka said, as I could discern he was telling the truth.

Stefan seemed to acknowledge the man was surprised — no, shocked was a better word for it — to be in police custody, despite doing nothing wrong. And that's when he asked the question that I was ready to address, "So, Mr. Kafka, what have you done? Did you kill anyone?"

"Two officers were just up and about, saying that I'm under arrest, but I wasn't provided any reason. So, no, I didn't kill anyone." Mr. Kafka said, as I was eyeing him curiously. Still, I was in doubt, so I hoped that pressing on will make him crack, as it happened with many, many suspects before him.

"Well, I'd like to believe you, Joseph." I said, leaning towards the man. "But you're making this harder on yourself. So give it up!"

"I said I didn't do anything —!"

"Let's go, Cole," Bekowsky suddenly said, "This guy's definitely not going to speak up too soon."

Outside the interview room, the Captain was just as confused, so it wasn't a surprise when he told me that there must've been something more to this. He was certain that the man did some horrible thing that he cannot remember, and yet, I knew that someone must've slandered the man if he was arrested for nothing at all. But Bekowsky didn't seem too convinced about my theory, nor the captain, yet I was determined to bring justice for the poor man before me.

"Let's just focus on the case," I suddenly said, taking out my notebook. "Did anyone came in to report him for anything?"

"I gave order to search for anything matching this man's case…" Captain McKelty said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "So far, we found nothing."

"On top of that, he doesn't have an address —" I was about to say, but then Rusty Galloway came down the hall with a small paper in his hand.

"Kafka was lying," Rusty said, "here's the address. 3825 North Road. It's a block of apartments, quite shabby I'd say. Anyway, I still think there's something suspicious about this guy."

"Okay…I agree to that, Rusty," I said, "and let's hope people will cooperate. I definitely don't want to see this unsolved."

"Fine, Cole. Let's get a move on, shall we?"

This case proved already to be a hard nut to crack — as the expression goes — for there was no other suspect than this Mr. K, and there was no crime scene. Chances were slim for the man to be either sentenced or set free, and I got the impression that many, many things changed in America since some former Marines had trouble adjusting to life. Well, except for me and a few of my buddies, but then again...

...Who am I to change what happened after the war?

A question that, oddly, Mr. Kafka and I shared more than we thought.

 **(At 3825 North Road...)**

It was indeed shabby, I gave Rusty the credit for that, but Bekowsky simply huffed as he didn't like to be in parts of town where criminals lurked in the dark — mainly because we had to run after them and possibly shoot them if they refused to surrender — so he asked me to get this over with, quickly and without any hassle.

The paint was definitely worn out, and the plaque above was eroded by rain, so it was difficult to read the address properly, but in any case, I had to figure out fast because catching the murderer of the "Black Dahlia" wasn't enough to keep everything afloat for me. If anything, I was afraid the whole deal with Kafka might uncover something unpleasant for Elsa, but nonetheless, I was determined to see where this was leading.

"Let's ask around, see what comes out of this," I said to Bekowsky, who was busy examining the building, a lot more thoroughly than myself. "Stefan, what _are_ you doing?"

"This is way too shabby to live in, Cole. I mean, how _poor_ can he be, given the state of his clothes?"

"Huh, you're right," I suddenly said, remembering the man's appearance — he took care of himself, his clothes were clean — and that's when I started walking towards the door of the block, aiming to see this through. "You ask around the neighborhood. I'll see if anyone's home in these apartments."

As I entered, the same state of decay could be seen even inside — worn out paint, wires hanging from the ceiling — and wondered just what kind of crime did this man commit if it forced him to hide in a building that was, for sure, going to collapse in a few years? Sighing, I realised that all the questions that raised in my mind would not be answered too soon, so I decided to knock on the first door from the ground floor, willing to go from apartment to apartment.

 _Knock, knock._

"Yes?" an old lady, aged sixty, opened the door for me.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but can you tell me anything about Mr. Joseph Kafka?"

"Ah, the young man living in apartment eleven," the old lady said, as she adjusted her glasses. "Who are you, kind sir?"

"Detective Cole Phelps," I said, showing her my badge. "My partner and I are here because someone of your block reported him this morning. I must ask, what is your name?"

"It's Agathe. Agathe Joinville," she replied meekly. "Before you say, I am French, but I have established in the States more than ten years ago."

"Very well, Madam," I said curtly, "Can you give me the key to Mr. Kafka's apartment?"

She left the door open, so I could hear her slow, distinct footsteps, and some minutes later, jingles of keys, as if searching for the right key. It was impressive that Madam Joinville could tend to such a sorry state of a building, so I knew I had to know more about it — because it was, well, close to being a ruin — and I waited patiently for her to return with the right key.

"Here's the key, Detective," Madame Joinville said, lending me the key to Apartment 11. "I hope Mr. Kafka is safe, you know," she said, confiding in me. "We're all Jews in here."

" _Wait a minute…maybe…"_ I thought for a moment, before asking:

"Did you see a woman named Elsa Lichtmann coming around here?"

"No, I haven't seen her. I know she's a singer at the Blue Room, though, and helps us whenever she can through generous funds."

"Really? Could I —"

"Of course, Detective. I had a feeling you'd be asking for some evidence, so here it is."

The ledger was detailed enough to keep record of the funds, but why weren't they used on consolidating and repainting of the building? It seemed to me like a case of theft, and avoidance of tax, so when I was about to tell her of the possible charges, she took the ledger back and closed the door. Bekowsky came inside after that, and looked at me curiously, as if he didn't expect me to just stand in there, not searching this whole building thoroughly.

"So, are you done in here?" he asked with an ironic smile on his face.

"Yeah, I'm done," I replied, a little irritated, while rummaging the thought I had to see into this possible embezzlement later.

We started going up the stairs, looking for the apartment Mme. Joinville mentioned, but my mind oddly went back to Elsa. What was she hiding from me…? Well, perhaps with me being a detective, she didn't want me to find out of her own biddings, but I could tie Joseph Kafka to her now — something I didn't like — while Stefan noticed I was a little distressed, and told me a few funny cases from the times he's been to Traffic.

Guess that, amidst all the gloom, he could see a ray of light.

We were in front of the apartment, and opened the door, only to find out that the whole deal wasn't even touched. I mean, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until we started searching — and found various clues that pointed towards Elsa, again. This was getting to me more than I cared to admit, and that was obvious, even to Bekowsky.

"Would'ja look at that…" he said to me, picking up some old newspapers. "Looks like the guy was studying the police cases, by all means…"

"What? I didn't release anything —" I said, my face contorted in anger.

"Relax, Phelps, I know you didn't. But somehow, this guy did something."

We kept searching for clues, until I found a small ticket to the Blue Room, and I couldn't help thinking that Elsa was hiding so much from me, but while I was wondering just how long she managed to cover this up, Bekowsky's loud "Aha!" came to my ears as he held a dusty old paper. Whatever was on it, he was smiling proudly, so naturally it caught my attention as I rushed to examine it myself.

"Cole, it's proof enough he didn't do anything." he said, nonchalantly.

"What?!" I said, a little enraged, "Then why _was_ he arrested?"

"The letter doesn't say anything about that, only that it slanders Mr. K. to no end."

"And there's no author?"

"No."

"Well, this was a wild goose chase in itself!" I said, irritated at best, "Why would someone go to such lengths to make the Homicide desk look completely baffled?"

"I don't know, Cole, I really don't know."

And with that, I realized something happened in California, more than I could even control. Someone was going to some lengths to discredit each desk I was in, so it wasn't easy to keep a good reputation as a detective — not with what was going on between Elsa and I — and no matter how hard I tried to make myself worthy of being a man of the force...

...It simply didn't work.


End file.
